


Dreary Deadwinter, Merry Midwinter

by Skullharvester



Series: One-Shots (Baldur's Gate 3) [1]
Category: Baldur's Gate, Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types, baldur's gate 3
Genre: Holidays, M/M, Midwinter, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:14:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28146684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skullharvester/pseuds/Skullharvester
Summary: Astarion spends the dreadful Midwinter season with the band of misfits he's found himself stuck with, but after reflecting on less pleasant seasons passed, he finds that it isn't so bad, after all.  Maybe.(This takes place in the timeline of my "Hunter and Gatherer" series, but is written to be read as a stand-alone, even for people who haven't read it yet!)
Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: One-Shots (Baldur's Gate 3) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120211
Comments: 2
Kudos: 17





	Dreary Deadwinter, Merry Midwinter

**Author's Note:**

> This is a winter holiday-themed one-shot story that takes place during the events of my Hunter & Gatherer fanfiction, but can be read as a stand-alone story!
> 
> Enjoy and have fun!
> 
> If you liked this tale, please drop me a kudos and/or a comment to let me know if you'd like to see more!
> 
> Thank you, and have a wonderful night!

* * *

* * *

Midwinter was what it was called for nobles like Astarion, but for peasants like his lover Elganon and the folk the half-elf surrounded himself with, it was given the grim title of: “Deadwinter Day”. How drab and dreary. As if wintertime needed to be any more depressing than it already was. Couldn’t the common folk at least have the courtesy to lie to themselves and pretend it was a merry time of year?

Astarion supposed it couldn’t be helped. Before he became a vampire, he got to go to extravagant parties, feast with other nobles he’d be rubbing elbows (among other body parts, more often than not) with for the night, and even received gifts that were thinly veiled bribes to curry favor with him. As a magistrate, _everyone_ who dabbled in less-than-legal hobbies and dealings wanted to be on his good side. Life was good. For him, at least. Many of the peasants, meanwhile, starved in their homes when their crops died unexpectedly. Too bad for them, but what was _he_ to do about it?

He liked to pat himself on the back for being decent enough to skip the false pretensions of getting all teary-eyed over the poor folk. At every party, he’d always see one or two merchants or nobles dabbing under their eyelids, pretending to care for the downtrodden moments before stuffing their own faces with another helping of overabundant and lavish food.

Sure, charity _was_ an option, but even with his modest wealth, Astarion couldn’t simply empty his bank account to provide for every needy urchin in Baldur’s Gate. You couldn’t just give a few coins or some bread to _one_ urchin. They traveled in packs, he noticed. Give a bit of food to one, and they’d swarm like rats in an instant. They might even try to gang up and rob him if he wasn’t careful. So, he never took that risk. Better safe than sorry, right?

He’d sleep comfortably—or meditate, depending on his whims, since he was an elf and didn’t _require_ regular sleep—at night knowing that when they froze to death on the streets, they’d appear very peaceful as they went about doing it. Not a bad way to go, if he said so himself.

This year, however, there would be no luxurious party celebrated in a well-to-do noble’s grand manor—not for Astarion, anyway. He’d have to spend the holiday with the commoners he found _himself_ suddenly surrounded by, and that would be _unthinkable_ if he were still his living self. But now, having been humbled by two centuries of slavery under the heel of Cazador Szarr, Astarion saw the silver lining to it all: This would be the first Midwinter in two hundred agonizing years that he wasn’t trapped spending with his horrible former master. That alone made it the best Midwinter he’d ever had, and it hadn’t even started yet.

* * *

Cazador came across as a very different man when Astarion was still alive. He was genial, enchanting, witty, and elegant. Astarion trusted him, even, to a certain extent, and believing in the outward motivations of others was something he rarely ever did prior to his current circumstances. There was a time in which Astarion had been under the impression that there was something special between them. Of course, it was all too good to be true, wasn’t it?

They met at a Midwinter party that Astarion had been invited to, and it didn’t take long for him to be swept off his feet by the man’s wiles. It was bold of Cazador to approach him when he was clearly in the middle of wooing both a young noblewoman and a nobleman, and yet, it took only a few clever words to make Astarion forget all about them in favor of getting to know this charming older gentleman.

Before the night was over with, Astarion found himself on the balcony of his host’s manor—he’d forgotten the name of the lord who was holding the party—drinking wine with Cazador as they leaned against the railing, enjoying the clear view of the night sky. It was all very romantic, probably by design, and that was when Cazador decided to serenade him with a soliloquy about his personal life tragedy. His entire family had been murdered years ago, and ever since, he’d become somewhat of a hermit, unable to come to terms with the loss. 

He said the only thing that brought him peace of mind anymore was writing poetry, and he recited one of his poems to Astarion. It was meant to be for his late wife, but sadly, the incident had occurred before he could deliver it to her. There was an unspoken implication that finally, he had found someone he could gift it to instead. 

Astarion never got emotional over such things. For someone who always claimed to be such a romantic at heart, Astarion was never moved by his lovers’ passions for him, perhaps because his interest in romance was very self-centered and narcissistic in its intentions. However, Cazador’s poem made him weep right then and there, and to his surprise, the older nobleman pulled him right into his arms and held him with an affection he’d never known before until he stopped crying.

Why couldn’t that love have been true?

Weeks passed, and as their bond grew, Cazador trusted Astarion enough to confess to him what he was: A vampire. He played up the tragedy of it all, saying that he never asked for such a curse and tried to do good deeds with it to repent for what he’d become, but Astarion didn’t care. He was deeply fond of the man, and lacking in good moral character, truth be told. What did Astarion care about selling off criminals to this monster who needed blood to survive? It made his job as a magistrate easier, freed up prison space in Baldur’s Gate, and Cazador even paid him for the steady supply of miscreants. They weren’t people that anybody would miss, anyway, he reckoned.

Cazador took good care of Astarion, and Astarion in turn did the same for his new benefactor. But Astarion should have seen sooner the red flags that indicated that their partnership was coming to an abrupt end and shifting into a relationship of an entirely different kind. He was always so stubborn, though, and convinced that he was clever enough to keep evading karma for the rest of his life.

Astarion remembered the night that Cazador found him bleeding out on the cobblestone after being assaulted for a judgment he’d passed down as a magistrate. He was on death’s doorstep, and in that moment, Cazador may as well have been a guardian angel who’d come to rescue him in his time of need. He didn’t want to become a vampire, being familiar with some of its downsides, but he trusted Cazador and he wanted to be saved.

He never knew that on that night, that the person he was would die regardless. Not just literally, but spiritually and emotionally as well. The moment those fangs sank into his neck, his world was changed forever. All of his pride, all of his self-confidence, taken from him. From that night forward, he would always be a shell of his former self, pretending to be proud and arrogant, but deep down, merely a frightened and wounded animal. A tiny little rat that would take any scraps given to him if it meant that he would survive a little while longer.

Now when Astarion watched the peasants slowly die around him throughout the Midwinter season, he almost envied them, thinking back to that night when the blood was seeping out of him, filling the gaps in the cobblestone, and his vision darkened more and more as the life faded from his body.

He was terribly afraid at first, but in one fleeting moment before Cazador arrived, when he’d lost too much blood to feel the pain anymore, he thought to himself: Drifting away like this is so…peaceful.

* * *

While Astarion was busy getting dressed for the day upstairs in the tower, Elganon had woken up hours before him and was downstairs in the apothecary shop that he and his adoptive duergar father ran, and he was in the process of making candles out of tallow. Not the ordinary sort he made (ordinary being relative—they had a _bit_ of magic infused in them) to illuminate the rooms in the tower, but special scented ones that were intended as presents for his friends and family.

There was _so much_ left-over tallow from all of the corpses his graverobbing family exhumed for reagents in their crafts, and since he had no place else left to store it all, he figured he may as well utilize it in this year’s Deadwinter gifts. He always made his gifts by hand, not simply because he was poor, but because that made them more sentimental and heartfelt than something bought from a store, anyway.

Elganon peeked inside of the barrel of tallow next to the stool he sat on behind the counter, checking to see how much was left. The answer was an awful lot, and this was only one barrel out of many kept in the overcrowded cellar.

“Hm… Maybe I should make some of this into soap. Everybody likes soap, don’t they?” he said to himself uncertainly. 

Admittedly, for all their time spent together, he still felt he didn’t know some of his traveling companions all too well. He was very shy, and although his confidence was growing in recent times, he didn’t really know how to hit it off with the ragtag group of adventurers he found himself stuck with due to their shared dilemma of having mind flayers infecting them with brain-eating tadpoles aboard a flying ship. He often tried to strike up idle conversations every now and then, but it was easy for his methods to be misunderstood as suspicious prying or annoying rambling about uninteresting trivia. Elganon may have had a certain magnetism about him, but he was hardly socially graceful.

Hopefully, if words wouldn’t work, gestures of kindness would. Or might these gifts be mistaken as a bribe? There was really no way of winning, was there?

He sighed sadly but perked up as soon as he saw Astarion come down the staircase.

“Morning, love!” Elganon said chipperly, wearing the first smile on his face of the day. “Rest well?”

Astarion approached the counter and stretched his arms and back exaggeratedly, wrinkling his brow as he strained his muscles and smiling in return. “A bit sore after last night, but other than that, I’m just tickety-boo, darling.”

“Oh,” Elganon uttered, appearing slightly worried as he set down his trimmer and the length of wick in his hand for a moment. He held out his arms, inviting the vampiric elf into a hug. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? I meant to be gentle.”

Astarion laughed, hugging his partner tightly and kissing him on the cheek. 

“I’m only teasing you, dear.” He curled one of Elganon’s black locks around his finger, stroking the soft hair against his own lips.

Elganon wrapped his arms around Astarion’s neck, bringing him in for a deep kiss on the mouth. The chair he was sitting in creaked when he leaned his body back, becoming lost in the passion of their tongues entwining together when their mouths parted.

They were both given a start when the bell on the front door rang, indicating that a customer had entered. The front legs of Elganon’s chair slammed against the ground when he sat up straight and gently moved Astarion out of the way.

“W-We’re closed on Deadwinter Day!” he yelped.

Elganon was a little annoyed initially when he saw that it was only his surrogate uncle, Tabalecus, at the door. _Uncles_ , plural, if you counted Thomas the talking skull that the old human had tucked underneath his arm, but Thomas was on the fence about being called “uncle”.

“Uncle Tabby, Thomas, I thought you two usually went out of town this time of year,” said the half-elf, surprised by the unexpected visit. He never knew exactly where it was that they went every Deadwinter, but he assumed it had something to do with their past as Red Wizards of Thay. Maybe they were getting in touch with old contacts?

Tabalecus dusted the light snow off his coat and the top of the jewel-and-gold-encrusted skull he carried with him, then grinned pleasantly at his nephew and Astarion, who he supposed was also his nephew by now. Whereas most families expanded via childbirth or monotonous legal paperwork (marriages, proper legal adoption, etc.), Elganon’s makeshift family grew more like an infectious bacterium, insofar as it spread autonomously between persons after a certain amount of exposure.

“Tom an’ I decided we’d stick around Baldur’s Gate this year. ‘Sides, tha roads’re blocked. Too much snow, an’ they ain’t got tha manpower ta clear it all out in time,” said the old man in his fake heavy accent that made him sound more common than his actual origins, shivering from the lingering cold as he went to set Thomas down on the counter. “What’cha workin’ on, son?”

Elganon frowned slightly, taking out a cloth from behind the counter and draping it over his work in progress. “N-Nothing…”

“Candles!” exclaimed Thomas excitably, his eye sockets practically widening with joy. “I _love_ candles. I’m guessing these are the presents you’re making this year. Lift up the cover and show me which one is mine, dear boy.”

“It’s supposed to be a surprise!” Elganon replied irritably.

“Well, you _did_ decide to make them where anyone could come down the stairs and see it right away,” Astarion contended.

The half-elf folded his arms on the counter and brooded. “Yeah, but I thought I’d be finished before everyone started waking up. That’s why I woke up so early today. I forgot how many people I was making presents for this year.”

“Should be glad ta have all these new friends, hon,” said Tabalecus, clapping Elganon on the shoulder reassuringly.

“I don’t even know if we’re friends, exactly,” he admitted. “I think I’m mostly tolerated, more like.”

Thomas’ teeth rattled in place of a sigh. “Oh, pish-posh, Elg. _We_ love you, at least.” His gaze was still very focused on the cloth that covered up the candles.

“Listen to your beheaded uncle,” said Astarion.

“Bebodied is probably more appropriate,” Thomas argued.

“Whatever,” Astarion grumbled. “The point is: Don’t be so glum, it’s Midwinter.”

Tabalecus nodded in agreement. “An’ besides, Elg, Tom an’ I brought ya a present!”

“Where’s _my_ present?” Astarion demanded offendedly.

“You’ll get yours later,” Thomas told him sharply. “Elganon’s can’t exactly wait for much longer.”

Astarion crossed his arms, pouting.

Tabalecus went back outside, and when he returned, he was carrying in his arms something wrapped up in a black cloak. Whatever it was, it was squirming. He set it down in the middle of the floor between a row of shelves, and beckoned Elganon to come over. Though skeptical, the half-elf got up, exchanging inquisitive glances with Astarion as he went with him to go have a look. Elganon bent over and grabbed the top of the cloak, pulling it away quickly while taking a step back.

“Scratch?!” Elganon gasped.

Scratch was the dog he befriended all the way back in Elturgard, who followed him here to Baldur’s Gate when he simply couldn’t stay put at the druid grove like Elganon begged him to. The poor animal met his end in Baldur’s Gate not long after his reunion with Elganon, but now he was a skeletal thing that pranced around happily at the sight of his half-elven friend.

_I feel better now!_ said the dog. It sounded like regular barking to everyone in the room except for Elganon, who could speak with animals via magic. _I don’t know what happened, but I was waiting for you outside and then I fell asleep for a very long time. Something bit me. It made me very sick and very tired. I’m sorry if you were waiting for me, friend._

Elganon didn’t know how to react to the undead dog rubbing against his leg lovingly. In one hand, he was glad to have his animal companion back. In the other, he always had mixed feelings about the reanimation of animals through necromancy. It seemed cruel, since they almost never realized what they were. Scratch was no different, apparently.

The half-elf’s voice became strained with forced glee when he uttered, “Th-Thank you both _soooo_ much! This is… _great_!” His smile was so unnatural that it looked like his face was about to split in half, but the two Red Wizards hardly noticed his veiled despair.

Truly, Elganon wanted to cry, but he didn’t want to bring any attention to the fact that Scratch was a zombie—for the dog’s sake. He crouched down and petted the poor thing, pretending as if everything was completely normal. Besides, he knew what the alternative was to accepting the animal for what it was now. Deadwinter Day was depressing enough without having to also put the creature out of its misery. Elganon didn’t want to go through that ordeal, nor put the dog through it either, and he especially didn’t want to spend the entire holiday paralyzed in bed with agony and tears rolling down his face.

So, now he had an undead dog. On the bright side, this was probably the first pet he’d be allowed to keep in the tower, since it never needed to be fed or go to the bathroom. Hooray?

When he stood back up, Astarion muttered into his ear, “You’re taking this awfully well.”

Tears pooled in Elganon’s green eyes. “O-Oh, yes, I’m _utterly chuffed_ , love. This is just…the _best_ Deadwinter already.”

_Don’t cry_ , he told himself, blinking away the forming tears.

“See?” Thomas called out to Tabalecus from his position on the counter. “I told you he would like it!”

Tabalecus patted the dog on the head and slapped Elganon on the back jovially. “It weren’t no trouble, peaches. Happy Deadwinter!” He turned to Astarion and said, “Usually ‘fore we’d leave town, we'd give ole Orebos a bit of money ta buy a decent dinner fer tha holidays while we’re away, but since we’ll be stickin’ around this year, I figure we might as well do tha shoppin’. We decided ta drop by on the way ta tha market, though, ‘cause… Well, we know Elg’s a vegetarian, but we ain’t really sure what we oughta get _you_ fer yer special dietary needs, y’know?”

That _was_ a good question. It _would_ be a little awkward for Astarion to be the only one at the dinner table who wasn’t eating, wouldn’t it? And even more awkward still if he sucked on Elganon’s neck while the half-elf ate his own meal. Most mortals weren’t too keen on bearing witness to a vampire’s unsightly feeding habits, so it probably wouldn’t pass as proper table etiquette even if Astarion tucked a napkin into the collar of his doublet and murmured a polite “pardon me” beforehand. There was a _reason_ that Astarion typically drank from his partner in the bedroom: It was for the privacy.

“Ah, well,” Astarion began to say, rubbing his fingers together thoughtfully. “I do like red meat. Raw, of course.” His mouth watered as he imagined the taste on his tongue. “But don’t trouble yourselves on _my_ account.”

Tabalecus nodded his head, making a mental note. “Extra rare steak, then?”

Astarion danced around on his tiptoes and pointed at the man. “Oh, better yet: What about a nice brisket?”

Elganon chuckled and patted Astarion on the shoulder to get him to calm down. “I thought you said they shouldn’t trouble themselves!”

The vampire huffed. “Well, if the offer is _there_ , I may as well—"

“Don’t worry none. Sure, I’ll pick up some brisket,” said Tabalecus, waving a hand. “Deadwinter only comes once a year.”

“You’re both making me hungry over here, and I don’t even eat anymore,” said Thomas, peering down at the dog when it put its front paws on the counter to lean up and sniff him curiously. “Shoo!” The dog barked a greeting at him, and his teeth rattled irritably.

Tabalecus came to rescue Thomas from the playful dog before Scratch got any ideas about the skull being a new chew toy, then headed for the front door. “We’ll be back in a couple hours, y’all! Good luck with tha candles, Elg! They smell real nice already!” 

After Elganon and Astarion waved goodbye, the Red Wizards went on their way. Thomas, unfortunately for him, had to be tucked into Tabalecus’ pack for the sake of discretion, and annoyed mumbling could be heard from the bag as Tabalecus shut the door behind himself.

With his uncles out of sight, Elganon skulked back to his stool and plopped down on it to get back to making the candles. Scratch followed him behind the counter and laid near his feet on the floor. Now Astarion could see just how depressed the young man was about his “gift”.

“Why the long face, dear?” Astarion sat in the empty space on the counter that Thomas was formerly occupying, and he watched Elganon work. “I mean, the _dog_ seems happy enough. Shouldn’t that make _you_ happy, too? What’s even the point of being a necromancer if you don’t use your powers to reanimate the ones you love when they’ve, er…gone?”

“You don’t understand, Astarion.” Elganon hunched forward, trimming the wick into smaller sections for each candle. “Not _all_ undead are like you.” He looked down at Scratch, making sure the dog either wasn’t listening to—or at least not comprehending—what he was saying, then went back to focusing on his task. “Most of them lose more of who they were in life when they’re brought back. It’s not a great experience. You’re quite lucky; vampires get to keep most of themselves.”

Astarion couldn’t help but take offense, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, so _you’re_ the expert now? How do _you_ know what I have and haven’t lost?!” He slammed his palm against the counter, causing the supplies on top of it to tremble. The skeletal dog lifted its head, uncertain of what the noise was about.

Elganon flinched, pausing in what he was doing to peer up at his lover anxiously. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—” He fell silent, unable to find the right words to say, slumping his shoulders as he went back to pouring wax into a mold. “All I meant was that you should be glad that you’re even self-aware of who you are or your condition. It’s a mixed bag; you can never be sure of what you’re going to get when you reanimate a creature. And Scratch here is fortunate that Tabby and Thomas are skilled necromancers, otherwise he could have turned out a shambling mess that attacks everything that moves on sight.”

_Is everything alright?_ the dog asked him. _What are you talking about? What’s necromancy?_

“It’s nothing, Scratch. Lay back down,” the half-elf murmured back. “Everything’s fine. We’re just talking about silly things that shouldn’t worry you. You’re a good boy.”

Scratch wagged his bony tail when he was given a comforting pat, panting without a tongue. He did as he was told, and he pretended to be resting again. The dog wasn’t sure why it was so impossible to take a nap all of a sudden. It came so easily before he woke up for the first time in a while recently.

Looking back to Astarion, Elganon said, “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings—”

“I don’t need your sympathy,” the vampire snapped, baring his fangs.

“Astarion, I misspoke. I apologize.”

The vampire brought his knees to his chest, turning his head in the opposite direction of the man next to him. Elganon placed a hand on his arm, but it was batted away.

“I never really thought about it before, but it’s ironic how I’ve gone from residing within a vampire coven to staying with a pack of necromancers,” Astarion mused sullenly. “What do you and your family see me as, I wonder? Another undead puppet? Something to gawk at or aspire to?”

“I… Astarion, this isn’t the life that I _chose_. It’s just what I was raised to do,” Elganon explained, distracting himself with his gift-making. He was nearly finished with the candles. He paused to sniff one of them as it was still hardening in the mold. Even without it being lit, the effects of the aroma therapy in the scent added to it worked well enough to calm him down. “That’s part of why I tried to leave home before the mind flayers abducted me. I was headed to the grove in Elturgard to learn druidism. _That’s_ what I always wanted to do.”

“But you chose not to when we came across the druid grove.” Astarion shifted his body to face him again. “Why? You could’ve asked Halsin to train you. I’m sure he would have.”

“I don’t think I could ever actually become a druid,” Elganon confessed. He hid the candle molds underneath the counter while they solidified fully. “When we met the druids in Elturgard, I realized that I probably couldn’t live up to the moral codes that they believe in.” 

He wasn’t even sure where to start, or if he wanted to start, with the soapmaking. He wasn’t in the mood for it anymore. Maybe he’d get around to it another day and give out the soap as a late secondary present. The candles should be enough for now.

“What are you talking about, darling?” Astarion watched concernedly as his partner propped his elbows up on the table and massaged his temples to work away a headache. “You’d fit right in, I’m sure.”

Elganon stood up, stepped carefully around Scratch, and then began putting his tools and the excess materials away. “There’s more to it than living in the woods and playing with animals.” 

Sealing up the tallow barrel, he tried dragging it to one corner of the room to get it out of the way for now, but he didn’t have the strength to move it more than a few feet before surrendering and leaving it where it was. Someone else could help him move it later. Probably not Astarion because the vampire wasn’t budging from his seat on the counter.

Astarion’s frown became more severe. “You’re doubting yourself again.”

“Plus, I made a pact with a demon,” Elganon added, once he’d caught his breath, when he considered that to be another factor in the “why not” category.

“So what? I’m sure that’s not unheard of.”

“And I’m not exactly “balanced”, to put it mildly.”

“Well, no, but—”

Elganon sighed, coming around the counter to stand beside his partner. “You just don’t understand.”

Astarion pursed his lips, about to reply rather harshly, but decided to hold his tongue. Perhaps there were some things that neither of them could possibly understand about the other unless they walked a mile in each other’s shoes.

There was a knock at the front door that drew their minds away from their dispute. Elganon already had a feeling he knew exactly who it was because there weren’t many people who didn’t at least try opening the shop’s door before knocking. It didn’t matter that the door _was_ unlocked since, if it was who he thought it was, they weren’t going to come in without the invitation to do so. Not because they were a vampire, like Astarion (although Astarion didn’t need invitations anymore, thanks to the magical tadpole currently lodged in his brain), but because they’d been ejected from the property multiple times by at least one of the tower’s three guards for “making a scene”, to put it one way.

It didn’t take long for Rook, the tiefling who was apparently the one on watch at this hour, to rush down the stairs.

“The priest’s outside again, isn’t he?” he asked, shaking his head disappointedly. It was uncertain whether he heard the knock or saw something outside one of the windows. “Should I tell him you’re not home?”

Elganon debated with himself on the answer to this for a while before replying, “No, no. I suppose I should go _talk_ to him this time.”

Rook didn’t seem to see wisdom in this decision, but he shrugged his shoulders in acceptance of it. “Alright, but if he starts flagellating himself at the doorstep again, I’m knocking him out for his _own_ good.”

“He’d probably _like_ that,” Astarion warned. He hung his legs off the side of the counter again, swinging them idly while he observed as Elganon opened the door.

“Hello, Abdirak,” Elganon greeted the heavily scarred human outside, feeling suddenly drained of energy by the man’s persistent presence. 

Upon reflection, this was _exactly_ why Orebos, Elganon’s adoptive father, told him never to get involved in organized religion. He said that the moment you stopped showing up to the temple regularly, priests and priestesses would start beating down your door. Or in the case of the clergy of Loviatar, like Abdirak, beating themselves _at_ your door until you came outside for one reason or another. The first time this occurred, Elganon thought that if he simply pretended that no one was home at all, the man would give up and go away after a while on his own. Instead, he carried on for over three hours. The city watch was of no help when they arrived on the scene that day—they gathered around and watched (fair enough—the job description was in the name), perceiving the situation as the weirdest lovers’ tiff they’d seen in their careers. Usually, sensible folk would stand outside and play a lute, recite a sonnet, or scream profanities about wanting their belongings back.

Elated, the priest of Loviatar threw his arms around Elganon, hugging him far too tightly than was necessary. “Dear child, I’ve been worried _sick_ about you! I haven’t seen you in _ages_!” When he finally had the consideration to allow the half-elf to breathe again, he held Elganon by the arms and examined his face. “Has something happened recently? You’re looking paler than usual.”

“That’s only because it’s winter, really,” Elganon replied meekly, overwhelmed by the ardent attention. “I’ve been _meaning_ to stop by the temple sometime, but time got away from me! That’s all! Right, Astarion?” He looked back towards his lover, hoping to get an affirmation on his alibi.

Truthfully, Elganon didn’t know Abdirak well enough on a personal level to deem his affections appropriate (even though Elganon and Astarion had fooled around with the priest on multiple occasions together, though it was purely adventurous fun), but understandably Abdirak was apparently under the impression that they were _very_ close.

Astarion had to put forth some effort not to burst out into laughter. “Oh, yes, we’ve been extremely busy here. Brewing medicines and…” He rolled his wrist in a circular motion as he pondered his next words. “…other important things. You know how it is.” He’d be a more convincing liar in these situations if he did any _real_ work at the apothecary and therefore learned what really went on there, rather than lounge around like a lazy cat.

Abdirak clasped his hands together and gave a slight bow. “I completely understand, dear ones! We can certainly make up for lost time. In fact, I came here to extend an invitation to the both of you. We’re having our annual ceremony at the temple, and I wondered if you might like to come. We’re starting early this year.”

“W-Well,” Elganon stammered, searching for a new excuse, “we’ve got other plans this Deadwinter, but—”

“You don’t have to stay for the entire duration!” Abdirak clarified. “It would please me—and most importantly, Loviatar herself—if you could attend even for an hour or so.” He smiled with anticipation, squeezing his hands tightly together. The applied pressure to his hands ended up reopening a couple cuts in his fingers, one of them being on the ring finger, which Elganon noticed the man was now missing the first section of. When did he lose that over the course of the past few months? Did he do it to himself like most of his mutilations? Probably.

Astarion removed himself from the counter and patted Rook on the shoulder on his way over to Elganon and the priest—his way of telling the tiefling that everything was handled from here and that he was dismissed.

Rook shrugged and said, “Very well. I think it’s about time for either Vaylen or Benny to start their shift watching the tower, anyway. I’m gonna go catch a nap before dinner. See ya then, I hope.” He continued to watch the three over his shoulder while he ascended back up the stairs.

Placing a hand on Elganon’s upper back, Astarion said to Abdirak, “I have to admit that I’m intrigued. Why not?” Elganon shot him a horrified look that he paid no mind to.

The priest was absolutely giddy. “Excellent! Then we shouldn’t delay. Come, it’s about to start soon. I’ll be the one to give the opening prayer.”

As Elganon and Astarion were taken by the hand and ushered along by Abdirak, Elganon tried to recall exactly what this tradition entailed. He liked to, on occasion, study the numerous religions of Faerûn, but so many had their own special practice on this holiday that it was easy to forget who did what. With Loviatar being an intermediary goddess, she was one of the deities whose rituals he was less familiar with. Part of why he was so curious about associating with Abdirak in the first place was an interest in finding out exactly what her worship was all about.

If this would be anything like his usual rendezvous with Abdirak, it wouldn’t be so bad. Most of the time, Elganon came out unscathed, as he spent more time administrating “Loviatar’s love” (pain and punishment) to Abdirak than was done to him. He believed that the priest had deep-rooted problems, but it seemed that their unusual arrangement between priest and parishioner temporarily brought Abdirak some peace of mind, if the troubled man ever truly knew peace at all.

So, Elganon comforted himself by believing that he was going to go to the temple, bludgeon the priest for an hour, lean into the whole “I am the hand of your goddess” bit to make Abdirak happy, and return home. Same old, same old.

This wasn’t exactly the way Elganon imagined his life would turn out, but sometimes this was where life took you, and you had to go along with it for the sake of your own sanity. Who wanted an existential crisis on a major holiday, after all?

* * *

When Elganon entered the main chamber of the secluded temple and saw the large circle of broken glass that a group of worshippers were waiting around while a band of musicians readied their instruments off to one side of the room, he immediately wanted to turn back. Suddenly, he remembered reading in a book once about the Rite of Pain and Purity. _That_ was what Loviatar’s faithful participated in every Deadwinter. They were going to dance around in a circle of broken glass, sometimes accompanied by other sharp objects. As lovely as the fragments of stained glass looked, his feet were already screaming in agony at the idea alone.

Unfortunately, try as he might to pull away, Abdirak held his hand tightly, but was more willing to let Astarion go when the elven vampire insisted. Why did Elganon have to be the priest’s favorite? Was it because of his pretty sad eyes, or was he really that good with a scourge?

“I believe I’ll just watch,” Astarion said, standing at a safe distance while Elganon was brought closer towards the circle of glass.

“You don’t wish to show your love for Loviatar on this sacred holiday?” Abdirak asked, seeming disappointed.

The vampire hid his grimace with a smile and started lying through his sharp teeth. “Ah, well, you see, I prefer to show her my affections through self-mutilation _in private_. It’s more personal that way!”

Abdirak had to concede to him on that; it was very typical for Loviatar’s people to carry out her practices in such a manner. “This is true, this is true. But, if you change your mind, feel free to join in at any time! There’s no need to be shy, dear one.”

Astarion tittered nervously. “Right, of course. Well, don’t hold up on my account. Go on, then! Give your little prayer, and get this party started!” He smirked at Elganon, wondering if the young man wanted to be saved as much as his expression implied or if it was all an act. What the half-elf said or conveyed through body language wasn’t always what he actually wanted, Astarion learned. Deep down, his lover was a sick little pup. It was odd, but very entertaining, especially when it led to situations like this.

The prayer was said (Elganon trembled the entire time in anticipation), the band commenced playing a tune that was somehow both somber and strangely upbeat for the sung lyrics, and before the half-elf could do any protesting, the priest dragged him straight into the shards of glass to begin their dance. The hardest part about this ritual was usually, quite literally, taking the first step, but Elganon wouldn’t have to worry about that. He shrieked loudly above the sound of the music and the rest of the believers’ screams, and it put a wide grin on Abdirak’s scratched-up face.

Squeezing his eyes shut and clutching Abdirak’s hand even tighter (he felt the hand of the woman on his opposite side grip his fingers to complete the circle the worshippers all formed), Elganon did his best to imagine the glass that punctured the pads of his feet as Astarion’s teeth. They were equally cold, but it wasn’t the same. Even when the elf was completely drunk, he didn’t have to bite and re-bite Elganon’s flesh _this_ much. It was an awful experience, but in a way, he was semi-willing to participate if only to make up for neglecting Abdirak for so long when the priest put in such a great effort to get his attention and check in on him. He’d have rather written the man a nice apology letter, but he knew this would appeal to the twisted cleric more than anything else.

It was sickening to feel the blood of the other followers mingle with his own after they completed the first ring around the glass, but Elganon kept telling himself that surely the rite would only go on for a few more laps. Meanwhile, Astarion’s morbid fascination and disgust became excitement as the air filled with the scent of fresh blood of varying types. It was complicated to explain to mortals what the differences were for vampires, but the aroma of the blood that pooled on the floor was very unique.

Astarion’s head spun with dizziness, his knees wobbled, and it took every ounce of restraint he had in him not to go into a frenzy and start ripping out the throats of everyone at the gathering. He tucked his hands under his armpits and felt a cold sweat coming on. Eventually, he took a handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed at his forehead, even though not a droplet was there. His fangs gnashed and gums tingled in his hunger, but he was doing very well to resist temptation. He was likely the designated person who’d be taking Elganon home after they were done here, so he reminded himself that couldn’t get intoxicated from bloodlust. Abstinence was the worst, he thought bitterly. Elganon owed _him_ after this.

After about the twentieth lap around the circle, Elganon didn’t couldn’t feel the pain or his own bleeding anymore. He was too lightheaded, more so than Astarion was from hunger. While his feet were dripping with blood, the rest of his body was dripping with sweat, and he was totally out of breath from all the wailing he’d been doing. This must have been where the “purity” part came in for the ritual because now there was a certain serenity in him—the kind one got when one was too exhausted to care to live anymore.

“Th-That’s me done,” Elganon wheezed, finally slipping away from the group. He stumbled backwards, and Astarion caught him in his arms.

Abdirak closed the circle once again by clutching the hand of the woman who was previously holding Elganon’s. He called out, “Going so soon? That’s too bad, but don’t forget that you’re always welcome here at the temple! Suffer well, sweet children of Loviatar!”

“Suffer well!” some of the other worshippers parroted in farewell, never once ceasing in their macabre celebration.

“Happy Deadwinter Day, and all that! By the way, Abdirak, we’re having a family dinner at the tower tonight, if you’d like to come!” Elganon replied. His head nodded; he was on the verge of fainting from blood loss and tiredness.

“I’d love to, dear one!” The priest gritted his teeth when he stepped on a particularly jagged fragment of stained glass. “Provided that we aren’t here celebrating all night!”

Astarion ultimately had to pick Elganon up bridal style to carry him out of the temple as they returned to the tower. Shards of glass were still embedded into the half-elf’s feet, and some of the pieces were lodged in deep. The vampire could hardly believe that the young man, who was so opposed to getting hurt, went through with this, but he commended him for his foolish bravery, nevertheless. 

The whole thing might have been an utterly stupid thing to do, but Astarion certainly had fun watching it play out. It also convinced him of his theory that Elganon secretly _enjoyed_ pain, despite all his protesting to the contrary. Between Astarion’s frequent vampiric love bites, his visits to the temple of Loviatar, and many of the dangers he blindly stumbled straight into like a beacon for trouble, why else would Elganon subject himself to so much discomfort? If it was all coincidence, the half-elf must have been the unluckiest person in the world. It might not have been such a good idea to travel with him, after all, but Astarion was equally short on good ideas and high on following whims.

* * *

“Do you _have_ to wiggle it before you pull it out?” Elganon complained, clenching his teeth as Astarion yanked another shard of glass out of his heel. The fresh tears running down his face streaked his eyeliner even further, not that there was much of it left around his eyes.

“You shouldn’t phrase it like that, darling,” Astarion said, tsking before moving on to pinching the end of a smaller piece stuck in Elganon’s foot. “I can hear our companions on the other side of the door. They may think we’re up to something else back here.” He laughed, but Elganon was persistent in moping miserably.

The couple were in the back room of the apothecary where surgeries and examinations typically took place, and these days, Elganon found himself on the cot back there more frequently than he played the role of examiner or surgeon. It was probably for the better. He didn’t miss putting leeches on people, sewing maggots into their wounds, or blowing smoke up their arses. He always got stuck doing the dreadful tasks that Orebos couldn’t be bothered to perform.

Once all the glass was removed, Astarion licked the wounds clean of blood with his tongue. It tickled, causing Elganon to giggle despite himself, and thus put him into a more pleasant mood.

“I’m starting to think you have a thing for feet, love,” Elganon teased, rolling onto his belly, and burying his face into the hard pillow to muffle his laughter.

“It just so happens that you get hurt there a lot,” Astarion said defensively before sucking on a toe shamelessly.

“And you say _I’m_ weird.”

The vampire popped the toe out of his mouth and mumbled sarcastically, “As if this is the weirdest thing we’ve ever done together. And at least _I'm_ not the one who sucks goblin toes.”

“Hey, that happened _one time_.” Elganon mulled on the thought briefly. “You didn’t have to stop doing what you're doing by the way.”

Astarion _knew_ he was into it. That didn’t surprise him, but he went back to lapping the blood from the cuts.

Benny the half-orc, Elganon’s childhood friend, barged into the room without knocking, as he often did at the worst times. He meant well, but his persistent concern for the condition of others typically lead to him walking in on things he probably shouldn’t see because his timing was always the worst.

“Oh,” Benny rumbled, looking between the half-elf and the vampire sucking on his toes. “Should I come back later?” 

He stood there, as if expecting an invitation to join in or something. Astarion noticed that was also common of the mercenary whenever he stumbled upon awkward scenes: He got this look on his face that suggested he was alarmed, yet simultaneously feeling left out of something interesting, albeit strange.

Astarion lifted his head again, glowering at the half-orc. “Benny, will you go away?”

Benny stuck his thumbs into his belt, still assessing the situation as it all fully registered in his mind. “Just wanted to check on Elg. Make sure ‘e was alright, an’ all that.”

Elganon looked over and smiled, giving a thumbs up. “Fair-to-middling. Thanks, Benny.”

“Don’t mention it.” The half-orc was about to leave, but he turned back around. “I don’t suppose either one of you are gonna explain to me what happened, ay?”

“I stepped on a broken bottle,” Elganon lied.

Benny furrowed his brow skeptically. “With both feet?”

“It was a very big bottle,” Astarion added for his lover.

“Right.” Clearly, Benny didn’t believe a word of it, but he pretended to accept the answer. “Be more careful next time, ay? Oh, and, er… Happy Deadwinter, ya nutters. Stay outta trouble.”

“Close the door,” the vampire nagged.

The mercenary grumbled, “Piss off, alright? I’m goin’, ya bastard. Don’t make me clip you ‘round the ears, ‘cause I’ll fuckin’ do it.” He hobbled off, slamming the door behind himself.

Getting onto his back again, Elganon sat up and asked the elf, with a playful demeanor, “Why do you have to be so mean to poor Benny?”

Astarion held his arms out and said very passionately, “Is it too much to ask that a man be able to lick his lover’s feet without being disturbed?!”

Elganon burst into a fit of laughter, but the vampire didn’t see the humor in what he’d said. He was being serious, damn it! There were too many people living in this tower!

* * *

With Elganon’s feet bandaged up and inserted into a pair of comfortable slippers, he and Astarion went back outside to have a look at the snowmen that some of the members of their crew were making, according to their deep gnome, possibly half-goblin, friend Kahira, who came to eagerly tell them all about it. The few inches of snow that already coated the ground were a welcome comfort for the half-elf’s aching feet as the cold permeated through his shoes.

Shadowheart watched with a petulant pout as Gale made a snow angel on the ground, calling him childish, while Wyll was trying and failing to show Lae’zel how to make a proper snowman because the githyanki warrior simply wouldn’t listen to his instructions.

“We’re not making scarecrows here, Lae’zel,” Wyll said with a sigh, adorning his own snowman with a new spherical head. Lae’zel knocked the old head off of it when he unintentionally insulted her work the first time. “Maybe take out some of the twigs you used as teeth? Something like that’ll frighten the children around here, I’m sure.”

“You’re only jealous because _mine_ is superior,” the githyanki argued, using her gloved finger to emphasize the lines on her snowman’s face to make it scowl more. “Besides, when is the last time you’ve even _seen_ a child around here?”

Wyll didn’t want to be the one to mention that it was her that scared them all off. She wasn’t as patient as he was with curious children, but he hoped to soften her hard heart. He had a soft spot for her himself, but she seemingly lost any interest she might’ve had in him after they spent a night in his tent together back when they were in Elturgard. He may have had a wandering mind in the bedroll, but his heart was in the right place and he wished she would notice that.

“I guess you’re right,” he conceded. It _was_ a nice snowman, even if the aesthetic was out of season in his opinion. “Sorry, Lae’zel. You do you. Honestly, I’m just glad to see you giving something new a go. You’ve come a long way from turning your nose up at the customs of our world.” He flashed her a proud smile.

She peered down at her snowman, pretending to be focused on perfecting it in the same way she wanted to achieve mastery at everything she did. “Thank you,” she mumbled, adding more coal to make the speckles on the snowman’s face, so that it resembled a member of her own species. It might have just been the biting cold, but her yellow cheeks tinted red.

Charming, the snake familiar that Astarion found and subsequently took on as his own, slithered out of the snow and onto Gale’s chest for warmth, shivering horribly. “I don’t know why I bothered to come outssside. It’sss dreadful out here,” he hissed.

The wizard he was on top of laughed and patted the albino serpent on his scaly back. “I didn’t even see you out here! You blend right in!”

“I forgot what sssnow felt like. I hate it,” said the snake.

Kahira rushed into the center of the group and yelled, “Snowball fight!” Without waiting, she immediately launched the snowball in her hand at Shadowheart’s backside, causing the cleric of Shar to jump when she was pelted.

“ _Ow!_ ” Shadowheart groaned, rubbing her rear as she spun around to face the deep gnome. She looked on the ground, seeing the remnants of the snowball. “You little— You put a rock in it! What’s the matter with you?!”

Cackling, Kahira dashed away, weaving around the snowmen being built while the angry cleric pursued her and threw fistfuls of packed snow that she could gather along the way at the deep gnome to get back at her.

“Come here, you!” Shadowheart snapped, frustrated that the arcane trickster was so nimble with her tiny little frame. She lost Kahira when the deep gnome dove into a small hill of snow and delved deep inside. No matter how much she dug, Shadowheart couldn’t tell where she’d gone. “Eugh! I’m going to sacrifice you to the mistress Shar when I find you!”

When Kahira emerged from the snowbank, she belted the half-elven cleric with more snowballs she had prepared in her burrow. “Never!”

Just as Shadowheart leaped at where the deep gnome sprouted from, Kahira was gone again. “I give up,” the cleric sighed, laying her head in the snow defeatedly.

Orebos, the duergar owner of the apothecary, stormed out of the front door of the tower, pushing past Elganon and Astarion while they were watching everybody, and said, “Alright, tha’s it, ye lot are havin’ too much fun out ‘ere. Pack it in, or else I’ll—”

Everybody, except for the snake, packed up a tight snowball and chucked it at the gray dwarf, sending him tumbling over in the snow.

“Oi! Feck!” Orebos spat out a wad of snow that got into his mouth, glaring up at Elganon especially. “Lad, I would expect Frilly ‘ere,” he pointed his thumb at Astarion to his side, “tae do somethin’ like tha’, but now ye’ve turned traitor on me as well?” He rolled over to acknowledge Astarion properly, wagging a finger. “I should’ve never let ye into me home. This is _yer_ doin’, innit?”

Astarion held up his hands defensively. “Don’t blame me—”

“Innit?!”

Elganon sighed, getting Orebos back to his feet while ignoring the aging dwarf’s fussing and resistance to accept the help. “Won’t you let people be happy for at least a single day?” he pleaded.

Orebos put his fists on his hips stubbornly. “Hm… _Fine_ , but dunnae break anythin’ ‘round ‘ere, or it’s comin’ outta _yer_ allowance.” What he really meant was Elganon’s weekly pay for working at his apothecary even into his adult years, but he still called it an allowance because he only actually paid him, when he felt like it, based on the young man’s behavior. The perks of working for family members.

“Fair enough,” Elganon agreed, brushing the snow off his adoptive father’s bald head and urging him to go back inside where it was warm, and where he couldn’t bring the temporarily cheerful atmosphere down. As much as he cared for Orebos, Deadwinter Day was always unfortunately gloomy around the gray dwarf.

* * *

Years ago, the holiday season was especially tough for Elganon when he was a teenager. The worst Deadwinter Day yet was when only a few weeks prior, his best friend (in the mortal realm) Benny had been sent to prison for crimes he didn’t commit. They usually spent some time together during the holiday, but this was the year when a lot of things changed. For one, money got even tighter for Elganon's already impoverished family, and for all the efforts to try and obscure this fact from him (at least on the part of his uncles), it was blatantly obvious. 

The last time he’d been to visit with his uncles from Thay at their home in the Outer City, he caught on that they pawned off more of the treasured memoirs of their pasts as Red Wizards for a pittance compared to what they originally gave for them. Some of those things were priceless. They could barely pretend they were the secretly wealthy uncles of the family anymore. For their few treasures, they weren’t actually much better off and were equally as up to their eyeballs (well, Tabalecus’ eyeballs—Thomas didn’t have eyes anymore) in accumulating debt with no way out of the deepening hole in sight. 

Things were going from bad to worse, and it was during the time of year when Elganon noticed more people jumping out of their second or third story windows than usual, although that was always a strange phenomenon that occurred around him in particular, for whatever reason.

As he sat at the table, all that was in front of him for what was supposed to be a modest feast this year was instead the usual bowl of gray goo and a hunk of stale bread that he and his duergar father ate most days out of the week. At least it was vegetarian, but only because meat was more expensive at the market than plant-based foods. It was a shame. He always looked forward to eating a decent meal on this day.

“Did Uncle Tabby and Thomas not give us any money this year?” the boy asked, turning to Orebos with a sad expression.

“Aye, they did,” Orebos confessed, spooning more of the gray slop into his mouth, getting most of it in his beard. “Had tae spend it on land taxes, though. Eat yer food, before it gets cold.”

Elganon’s eyes watered pitifully. “It’s already cold… It’s _always_ cold.”

“Stop yer whinging, lad. I’ve heard enough of yer blubberin’ fer one day. Eat yer food, or go tae bed hungry, fer all I care.” The dwarf leaned across the table to fill his bowl with another helping of the mystery stew. If he actually hated the food as much as Elganon did, the boy was never able to tell.

Propping his head up with one arm in a pout, Elganon stirred the contents of his bowl with his dingy spoon, hesitant to put any of it in his mouth. He was done with this stuff. Sometimes, he wished he could disappear from the life he was trapped in. At least when he lived as a soulless clone of his real father, a waiting vessel to be inhabited one day before his demonic patron rescued him from such a fate by granting him an identity of his own, he wasn’t aware of how dreary things were here. He was happy in his ignorance about the world around him, as far as he vaguely remembered.

Kahira was probably having a much better time at Madam Mum’s place. Madam Mum was the Gur woman who ran the brothel that Orebos frequented so much over the years, and though Kahira wasn’t the type to stay indoors often, she came inside long enough during the winter to have dinner with Mum and her employees, whom she all thought of as her sons and daughters, hence the nickname. Of course, Elganon and Orebos were always welcomed to join, but since the duergar’s arthritis was acting up again, Elganon wasn’t allowed to go, either. If Mum knew, she’d have thrown a fit, but the boy didn’t have the nerve to tattle on Orebos and instead accepted his fate stuck at home in the tower.

Elganon allowed his eyes to roll into the back of his head, permitting his spirit to drift off to someplace better—to the realm of the demon he’d made the pact with when he was even younger still.

“Happy Deadwinter,” said the sheep-like demon who sat across from him at an entirely different table now, smiling fondly. “And how is my precious little doll doing on this fine day? You look so glum. What’s wrong?”

“We’re eating slop again,” Elganon explained to the creature, staring at his feet with a heavy frown. “I don’t want to be at the tower anymore. It’s awful. Orebos always wants everything to be about work and bills, and it’s never about what I want.”

The demon rubbed his chin with a claw, tapping his teeth together thoughtfully. “I’m sorry that you’re so unhappy, little one. If you wish, you may feast with me here instead. Would that be better?”

Elganon glanced up, smiling slightly. “Y-Yes, Lord Murmyr. Thank you.”

A proper spread was conjured to the table like magic, and only the demon partook in any of the meat served. Elganon happily sipped his lightly sweetened tea and stood in the seat of his chair to sample some of the berries in the bowl on one end of the massive table. The boy and the demon had gotten into a lively conversation about their hopes and dreams, and Elganon was rambling on about various possible ways in which he imagined he’d escape his current living situation.

“Maybe a rich and handsome nobleman or lady will come and sweep me off my feet, and we’ll go away to live in their family’s castle,” Elganon joked, only partially. That _would_ be nice, actually.

Murmyr chuckled at the idea, lifting a raw boar haunch to his mouth. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said, then tore into the boar flesh with his teeth. It was funny to see a meat-eating sheep, but Elganon didn’t think much of it other than that it was another strange facet of his eccentric master.

“Really?” Elganon gasped. “That would be _amazing_!”

The demon swallowed his food. “Be patient, little doll. Good things come to those who wait, I assure you.”

The young man beamed even brighter than before, laying against the surface of the table with his arms folded underneath him. He never had to worry much about table manners here. Then again, he didn’t really have to at home, either. “You’re the best friend anyone could ever have, Lord Murmyr.”

This pleased the demon very much. His six eyes wrinkled at their corners when he grinned in return. “Trust in me, and I’ll _always_ be there for you, my lugubrious prince.”

Upon waking up in the mortal realm, Elganon realized he was still at the dinner table in Orebos’ tower. The disgusting taste of the gray goo was on his lips, and looking into the bowl, he saw that this whole time, his physical body was eating it all, along with the bread on his plate. It was a far cry from the fresh fruits and vegetables he _thought_ he was consuming.

Oh well… Next year ought to be better. It _had_ to be. It couldn’t get any worse than this. If he was patient, maybe one day the demon would come through on his promise to give him a better life than the one he had. He’d be on the lookout for any pretty nobles that may approach him from now on.

* * *

Later in the day, Madam Mum arrived to help with the cooking. The three tower guards were her hirelings. She wasn’t merely a brothel owner, she also employed mercenaries as well on the side, and they were just as beloved as the prostitutes. Benny, admittedly, was her favorite. If it weren’t for him deciding on his own, against her pleading, to take the fall for crimes that would have otherwise been pinned to her name, she’d have lost everything. 

Not to mention that Benny was once an orphan, until she adopted him when his mother passed away. Mum always wanted children, but she could never have any of her own. She tried very hard, but it didn’t pan out. Benny was special to her, and so were his little friends, Kahira and Elganon, whom he loved so much and thought the world of.

So, after making sure her boys and girls, as she called her employees, back home at the brothel were well taken care of for the night, Mum thought she might try spending Deadwinter Night at Orebos’ home. They’d grown unexpectedly close in the time they’d known each other, and it seemed like something that was a long time coming.

“Oh my, look at this! I’ll bet this tower has never been such a happy home!” Mum cried out as she hugged everyone on the way inside to the apothecary, while Vaylen the elf and Rook helped with her overstuffed bags that were a bit much for staying for a single night.

Vaylen gave Rook an irritable glance as she dragged the luggage in her arms up the stairs to the guest room where Mum was going to be staying, provided that she didn’t intend on sneaking off to Orebos’ room later that evening.

“I know,” Rook mumbled, grinning at his mute friend. “You know she likes to carry the whole damn world with her. It can’t be helped.”

The tiefling and the elf ascended the stairs, while Mum immediately made her way to the kitchen to meet up with Tabalecus and Thomas, who were already getting the oven going. Mostly, it was Tabalecus doing all the work, since Thomas didn’t have hands. Thomas provided good moral support, however. (“You can stoke that fire! I believe in you!” the skull of the Thayan wizard would say encouragingly. Then, once it was going, he’d take credit for most of it. He used to consider himself the team mascot back in his adventuring days—a fact which he was quite proud of.)

When Mum arrived in the kitchen, she bumped Tabalecus out of the way gently with her wide hip, took down one of the pots from the fixture dangling from the ceiling, and grabbed a stirring spoon. “Please, move aside, dearie! There’s a good lad. Go cut up some of those carrots and potatoes you’ve got over there for me, if you would.”

Tabalecus laughed, grabbing a knife and doing as he was told. “Yes, ma’am. Glad ya could make it ta tha party.”

Orebos scampered into the kitchen behind Mum, going up to her and tugging on the back of her dress. “Oi, woman! I want me red meat medium rare, ye hear?”

Mum bent over and drummed the spoon against the gray dwarf’s head humorously, grinning at his petulance. “I know how you like it! You don’t have to tell me, you silly old goat, now shoo! Out of my kitchen!”

“It’s _my_ kitchen, lass—”

“Not right now it isn’t! Off you go!”

“Yer _really_ bootin' me outta me own kitchen?”

“Do I have to call for Benny?” she cautioned him teasingly.

“Feck!” Orebos threw his hands up in surrender. “Fine, I’m goin’! Don’t call fer tha lad, alright? He’ll mangle me in me old age.” He didn’t argue any further and trudged out of the kitchen, leaving it to her and the Red Wizards.

* * *

Amid all the chaos that broke out when everyone piled into the bottom floor of the tower, Elganon and Astarion found a large, quiet cupboard where they could hide out for a little while in the apothecary. It was quiet until Scratch started clawing at the door, sensing that they were there. Astarion rolled his eyes at the dog’s distracting whimpering, but he scooted closer to Elganon as they both curled up with their knees drawn in beside one another and pretended that they were truly alone, even with the added sound of multiple muffled voices outside the cupboard.

“So, how long do you think it’ll take before Mum moves in as well?” Astarion asked in a hushed voice.

Elganon shrugged his shoulders, laying his head on Astarion’s shoulder. “It might happen. It might not. I think it could be nice to have her around. She’s a little overbearing, but I’m starting to enjoy all the company, I think. The tower doesn’t feel so empty anymore.”

“Well, I wouldn’t like it,” Astarion replied, scrunching up the bridge of his nose.

The half-elf frowned. “Why?”

“Because, like you said, she’s overbearing, and I have no doubt that she’ll smother us and constantly pester us about our intimate life,” the vampire explained.

The answer came as a relief; Elganon was expecting the reasoning to be something worse. “And it has nothing to do with the fact that—”

“That she’s a Gur?” Astarion could be extremely blunt sometimes, but his guess was correct. Elganon nodded. “Admittedly, that used to give me some pause, but… Well, she’s not what I expected. In many ways, she’s actually quite…charming, I have to admit. Her presence can be overwhelming at times, yes, but she’s…” He hesitated again; it was a struggle for him to confess when he was wrong. “She’s nicer to me than my own mother was.”

Elganon smiled. “You really think so?”

“Darling, she gives me free drinks at her brothel, pinches my cheeks, and tells me how adorable I am.” Astarion put on a grin to hide his discomfort towards bringing up the past. “My _real_ mother and father abandoned me to wetnurses and nannies, who didn’t care for me much, either. What do _you_ think?”

The smile quickly faded from the half-elf’s face. “Oh… You never told me that. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t tell you _now_ because I wanted your pity, dear. I’m simply stating facts—”

Somebody opened the cupboard and crawled inside with them, shutting the door back again.

“Hi.”

A young woman with long tangled hair was smiling bashfully at the men with her eyes, while the rest of her face was obscured by her arms that were folded on top of her knees.

“Mimsy?” Elganon asked, shocked to see her here. She was one of Mum’s prostitutes, who he and Astarion…shared a night with at the brothel a long while back. It ended so awkwardly that both men were surprised that she’d speak to them ever again, but every time they stopped by the brothel for a few drinks, she’d stop by their table and say hello. “What are you doing here?”

“I knew Mum was coming here,” Mimsy said, playing with her hair. “I thought I may as well invite myself over for dinner, you know? She made dinner for all of us back at the brothel before she left, of course, but I knew you two would be here.”

She’d apparently never get over her crush on them. And it’d never stop being surreal for Elganon to suddenly be so popular these days. Astarion was used to being swooned over, but if this sort of thing had been going on all along in Elganon’s case, the young man was totally oblivious to it up until now.

“That’s fine,” Elganon said, “but you should probably go and hang out with the others. Astarion and I were having a private conversation.”

Mimsy twisted her lips into a disappointed frown. “Oh, alright.” She smirked suddenly, then leaned over to kiss Astarion, then Elganon, on the cheek, leaving them baffled when she dashed out of the cupboard right after.

“She is a _strange_ girl,” Astarion said, and once again, Elganon nodded.

“Yeah, but we all are strange, in a way.”

“Fair enough. So, what was it we were talking about, darling? I lost track.”

Elganon grasped the elf’s hands in his own, bringing them up to his lips to kiss the knuckles. “Astarion, love? Do you plan on sticking around as part of my family? I’m really happy to have _you_ here most of all.”

Astarion laughed and answered, “I may as well. It’s not as if I have anywhere else to go. And besides, I rather enjoy being with you, too, even if this place _is_ a drab dungeon of a home.”

“You could have just said yes,” Elganon responded, chuckling himself. “Do you think we could go to the park later on? After dinner.”

“I don’t see why not, but won’t you be terribly cold?”

“I want to see the night sky with you. I can put on a few extra layers of clothing. It’ll be fine.”

While they still had the opportunity, they snuck in an impassioned kiss in the cupboard. It nearly became more than that and some heavy petting, if they hadn’t remembered that the adjacent room was full of people. Though, that typically never stopped them, but now was not the time.

* * *

Dinner was far from serene, but the food turned out to be fantastic and the boisterous atmosphere didn’t devolve into complete catastrophe, though there were several times in which it almost had. 

Abdirak and Shadowheart bickered over who would bless the food; Kahira was trying to bite at everyone’s ankles underneath the table; Scratch, despite not needing food, attempted to steal Astarion’s raw brisket from him, and Elganon got miffed when the vampire hissed at the dog; Lae’zel was getting impatient with Wyll’s constant bragging about his monster hunting triumphs in an attempt to impress her; Orebos was being his usual fusspot self and Mum had to cheer him up; Mimsy wouldn’t stop playing footsie with Elganon and Astarion (several times, her foot touched the wrong crotch); and Gale, Charming, Tabalecus, and Thomas got all up in arms (except for the snake and the skull, who of course both shared the misfortune of having no arms) over semantics about spellcasting techniques. Benny, Rook, and Vaylen were the only ones who could sit still in their chairs and behave, as per usual.

By most people’s standards, the party might have been a disaster, but as far as this lot went, this was the best-case scenario. After gifts had been exchanged, everyone who was previously feeling sour was put into a much better mood. The presents weren’t spectacular, but with times being as hard as they were lately, no one could turn down a free gift.

When there were few hours left in the night and the crowd began to disperse, Astarion and Elganon headed for the park in the Upper City of Baldur’s Gate. It took some time for their ears to stop ringing from the noise at the dinner party, but after that, the late-night stroll was a relaxing affair. They were the only two people at the park that night, and they sat together on one of the benches underneath a leafless tree once Astarion removed the fallen snow from the seat for his lover.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Elganon whispered, holding the elf close, who held him just as tightly.

“Oh, darling.” Astarion brushed the backs of his cold hands against Elganon’s face, running his fingers down his smooth jawline. “You’re such a sweetheart.”

Elganon giggled, tilting his head to kiss one of the hands that caressed him. “You’re so cold. Let me warm you.”

There was a distant look in Astarion’s eyes that appeared out of nowhere, like he’d remembered something terrible.

* * *

“You’re so cold, Astarion! Let me warm you!”

The young nobleman that Astarion was walking with through the park leaned closer to him, touching their arms together as they traveled down the path. Astarion kept his hands in his pockets, frowning miserably and avoiding eye-contact with the younger man, and it was making the youth suspicious.

“What’s wrong? Why do you look so sad, Astarion? A face as beautiful as yours should _never_ frown like that,” the man said earnestly in his sweet voice, not taking the hint that the elf wanted there to be some distance between them. “After I’ve traveled overseas to study as a sculptor, I’m going to come back here to Baldur’s Gate and sculpt you, you know. You’re a living work of art, and I should like to preserve your elegance forever with my work.”

“That’s nice, dear,” Astarion mumbled flatly. He hardly heard a word of what the man said to him. “Come on, it’s getting late. We need to pick up the pace.” He began walking faster, outpacing his date.

His fellow noble strove to keep up with him, huffing as he sprinted back to Astarion’s side. “You never told me where it was that we were going.”

“We’re going to have dinner at my benefactor’s manor,” the elf explained mechanically, as if the words had been rehearsed time and time again.

The nobleman seemingly accepted this answer, though he wasn’t sure what the sudden rush was all about. Astarion wasn’t in such a hurry earlier, and they were having a good time together, weren’t they?

“Your benefactor lives in Tumbledown?” asked the noble skeptically as they left the Upper City and entered that perpetually foggy district of the Outer City.

The handsome young man was getting cold feet about the whole affair with his new romantic interest. Why was he being dragged here of all places? It didn’t add up. All that was really out here was the massive, haunted graveyard that even alleged necromancers thought twice about entering anymore. It used to be a grand estate once, but that was a long time ago. Every member of the family that could lay claim to the holdings had been murdered in their beds—or so the stories went—and ever since, it was one of the primary depositories for the city’s dead, outside of a handful of smaller sites for those who _didn’t_ want to have to come visit their departed loved ones in an area that was rumored to have an undead problem, and who were more willing to accept the risk of having graverobbers snatch everything up—casket and all.

There was no way that anybody of note really _lived_ in Tumbledown anymore, and he was right. Here, there were only monsters and the cemetery’s protectors: The Gravemakers. But even the Gravemakers couldn’t save him now. By the time he was ready to make a break for it, Astarion locked him into a chokehold and dragged him kicking and screaming into the forgotten Szarr family’s crypts. The young man’s own family would never see him again.

Night after night, year after year, Astarion was sent out by Cazador to hunt down and bring back the most beautiful souls that he could find all around Baldur’s Gate and sometimes beyond, when the mood struck the vampire patriarch. Astarion should have been used to it after becoming so cozy with the idea of doing more or less the same thing with prisoners, but this was somehow different. This arrangement was a lot more personal, and he actually had to witness the aftermath of his deeds. It felt like a punishment for all of his sins, and it wasn’t even the only retribution that fate would lay upon him, using Cazador as a cudgel to break his wicked soul.

Seated at the dinner table, like every night when he’d brought back a meal for his tormentor, Astarion watched with ambivalence as Cazador drained the blood of the young noble, now his victim, right in front of him with all of the grace of a well-trained diplomat. All of the youth's dreams of becoming a famous sculptor using the bonds that his family had formed for him during that year's Midwinter's Eve were gone in an instant, and they would never be realized. Just like that. Cazador always said that fellow artists tasted the sweetest. Astarion would never know. All he ever had to eat were rats, like the one on his plate. But even then, even if he was starving, he might be given pause before doing what Cazador did. Astarion's cruel master made a sick game out of feeding—something that they had to do as vampires to survive.

Did the amiable man he once admired ever truly exist, or was that version of Cazador all a fabrication? When Cazador took umbrage with Astarion's growing corruption, did he only want Astarion to remain a beautiful soul for the purpose of eating him, too, one day?

And now, as Astarion's conscience slowly returned to the present, he couldn't help but wonder: What was Elganon _really_ to him? He wanted to believe that he loved Elganon with all of his heart, but what if deep down the monster in him saw the half-elf only as another tasty morsel?

He didn't know, and that broke his heart, if he even had one left.

* * *

"Astarion, there's something that I need to ask you," Elganon said, appearing solemn.

"Hm? What is it, dear?"

Elganon slumped down to the freezing ground and fished inside of his coat pocket for something. When he opened up his hands in Astarion's lap, there was a ring in his palm. "W-Will…" He was trembling from the cold, but perhaps it was nervousness as well. "…y-you ma-marry me?"

The unexpected question threw the vampire for another loop, and he swallowed hard. "Will I…" His eyelashes fluttered, dazed. "D-Darling, isn't this a little…soon?"

The ring was timidly shifted from one palm to another. Neither Elganon, nor Astarion could take their eyes off its gleam in the moonlight. "M-Maybe, but… I don't know if we'll survive our travels together, to be honest. One of us might die first, and I would never forgive myself if I didn't ask while I had the chance."

“I’m very touched, but—”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Elganon interrupted. “But please hear me out: You don’t actually have to decide on this until we're free of our troubles. I’m not asking you for a commitment. I’m asking you for hope. I just thought that this might give us both something to look forward to. A light at the end of the tunnel. That’s all.”

Elganon _expected_ him to say no, Astarion realized while wrinkling his forehead mournfully.

“This really means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” the vampire asked, reaching down to stroke his face again.

“It does, but I don’t want to make you feel obligated into anything…”

“Put the ring on my finger, darling.”

“What?”

Astarion held out his left hand with his fingers splayed. Tentatively, Elganon lifted the ring from his palm and slipped it over the elf’s ring finger. It wasn’t an expensive ring, but Astarion could tell when examining it that his lover must have saved a large part of his allowance for a while now to afford it. He might have scoffed at such a meager offering in the past, but now the simple band inspired sentiment in the jaded vampire. Somebody loved him enough to want to keep him around, and that was more than could be said for most of his previous lovers who grew just as disenchanted with him as he did with them in time. What he and Elganon shared might not last, either, but it was a quaint idea. A novelty. He’d never been engaged before, and neither had Elganon. 

Perhaps the young man had the right idea. Astarion _did_ feel a little more hopeful for the future. It was a nice little fantasy to picture himself being happy, rather than believing himself to be chained down, as he settled down with someone for the rest of his life. He doubted it would ever happen, but one could dream. It had been a long time since Astarion allowed himself to indulge in such thoughts.

When he directed his gaze back to his partner’s face, Elganon was ecstatic. The young man leaped up and hugged him around the neck, peppering his lightly freckled face with kisses. Astarion pulled him into his lap, and they admired the ring on his finger together, sharing in their joy.

Astarion couldn’t help but chortle when he thought of something. “You know, this isn’t the kind of ring I imagined you would present me first and foremost, dear.”

Elganon craned his head in confusion. “Oh? What kind did you expect?”

“The sort that you wear below the waist, if you catch my meaning.” The elf purred in his throat, arched his pale eyebrows, and smirked suggestively.

His lover puzzled over it for a moment, then said unsurely, “A belt?”

“Er… No, darling. What I meant was—” Astarion shook his head, deciding that he would explain it later. “Gods, I still have _so_ much to teach you, apparently.”

Elganon smiled innocently. “That’s why I want you as a husband. You’ve already helped me to grow so much as a person. I really appreciate that about you.”

He was hardly making it easy for Astarion to even consider declining his request for marriage. How did someone so helplessly dopey and silly charm him so much?

“I can get you a belt, too, if you really want one,” the half-elf added.

Astarion groaned a little. “No, darling, I don’t need a new belt.”

“Then what is it you were talking about?”

“I’ll tell you on the way home,” Astarion promised, hoisting the shorter man into his arms. “Let’s get you back before you freeze to death. It might not be legal for us to marry if we’re _both_ corpses. I’ll have to review the laws on that. I’m not sure what all has changed since my days as a magistrate.”

“Sounds good,” Elganon said, then sneezed. “Truth be told, I think I _am_ coming down with hypothermia, now that you mention it…”

* * *

Elganon was practically blue by the time he was brought up to their bedroom, but Astarion made quick work of freeing him of his soggy clothes, drying him off with a towel, and bundling him up in several blankets underneath the comfy duvet he’d gotten for their bed.

“I kn-knoow we’re not m-m-m-married yet,” said his shivering heap of blankets that allegedly had a person inside, “but could I call you my hu-hu-husband from now on? As a term of endearment.”

Astarion sighed, but did so with a smile on his face. “If you’d like to, you may.”

A sallow hand reached out and patted the tiny mattress. “Th-Then c-c-come to be-bed with me, wi-will you, husband?”

“But my body is naturally cold, darling. I’ll make you even colder,” Astarion warned him.

“Th-That’s alright.”

“No, it’s not. You’ll catch your death.”

“Please?”

Elganon _did_ say _one_ of the magic words. “Fine, but don’t make me have to say that I told you so,” Astarion relented, undressing himself and crawling underneath the blanket mound where they proceeded to cuddle.

“Happy Deadwinter, lovie,” said the half-elf, becoming more concerned with warming his undead partner with his scarce body heat than himself.

“Merry Midwinter, sweetheart,” Astarion replied, curling an arm around his lover’s waist.

They kissed each other on the lips, then the vampire stuck his head out of the covers long enough to blow out the candle on the nightstand. Snowflakes danced past the window where the only remaining light came in from the moon and the stars.

This time of year—and life itself in Baldur’s Gate, really—was drab and dreary when one got right down to it, but why couldn’t they pretend that it could be merry? The world didn’t need to be any more depressing than it already was.

**Author's Note:**

> "Now the cold has turned away. We can be best friends with the people we hate. 'Cause we've all got blood, and it's warmer than you'd think."
> 
> Recommended Listening: It's Christmas So We'll Stop by Frightened Rabbit


End file.
